


all that is copper will be gold

by ninanna



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Aromantic, Character Study, Introspection, M/M, Slice of Life, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 07:52:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5997646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninanna/pseuds/ninanna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <br/>
    <i>At each stride, the metal of his medal, now warm under layers of jersey and jacket, shifts and pushes to the thin fabric of his t-shirt, reminding its presence, blessing Oikawa with a breath of peace and a giddy sense of accomplishment. A year ago when he first joined and was only a pinch-server, nobody believed he could achieve more, nobody believed he could take command of the gameplay on court—nobody except Ushijima. It was infuriating though--it has always been; in fact if he was to describe Ushijima Wakatoshi in a single word, he thinks, that word would definitely be: 'infuriating'.</i>
    <br/>
  </p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	all that is copper will be gold

 

When the ball reaches the point he intended, an invisible target up in the air, it is only a spherical shadow before the glare of the spotlight and then Ushijima touches it—soaring above, his muscles flexing, and it is not humanly possible for it all to unfold millisecond by millisecond in front of Oikawa's eyes, a slow motion ballet above the ground—yet it does.

 

The way Ushijima's eyebrows furrow sharply, his face shining with a sheen of sweat, expression a mix power and exhaustion—a power that defies exhaustion...

 

... and comes the sound, a thud, so familiar, so unfamiliar, crowds tear their lungs and the blaring deafens everything except Oikawa's own breathing and pulse.

 

It is at first a shock—quite a bit like losing, ironically—he freezes and then it dawns on him; the joy, the happiness, the victory—it dawns on him and he starts laughing, hysterical, eyes tearing up; he never expected to lose himself like this in the face of triumph, but he does.

 

He is not the first one who hugs Ushijima, nor is Ushijima the first person to hug him—their team is large and a family, rivalries back at home, competition in training, antagonistic league matches back home forgotten as long as they wear the same deep red uniform on the court... Still, it is Ushijima who hugs him the most dearly, strongly, and the only one Oikawa whispers; not shouts, nor screams with passion, but whispers:

 

“We did it.”

 

And Ushijima chuckles—so rare, so rare despite the many nights they spent naked and tangled, even then so very rare—says, voice tired, ragged, yet soft; “I know.”

 

He is infuriating and any other time Oikawa would have pinched him for it; draw a groan and shoot a glare but this time he laughs. He laughs and it is uncharacteristically genuine and it is all good.

 

It is all good, even hours later, when they are halfway into the celebrations at an expensive bar, everyone more than a little tipsy and overly fed, and the beautiful communications coordinator pulls Ushijima out to the corridor, alone. Oikawa watches them leave but does not follow; he does not have to. Ushijima does not even tell white lies, he learnt a long time ago; when Ushijima trusts, he trusts fully, and expects the same—it is heavy but reassuring. It is satisfying in a way Oikawa never though he would find satisfying. Minutes later the woman comes back, a professional smile and a blush on her face, but rest of her body language screams 'rejection' and Oikawa should not feel so smug about this, probably, but he has always found himself more than a little petty and mean. Ushijima agreed too, once, but added; “You're very kind too... and protective. I like that about you.”

 

Lost in reminiscence and good quality red wine, courtesy of Team Japan's management, Oikawa does not even realise when the 'real thing' comes and takes a seat near him.

 

“You shouldn't drink too much.”

 

“And you shouldn't break a girl's heart on Valentine's day of all days... Ushiwaka-chan.”

 

Oikawa smirks back to Ushijima's lips lined with a grimace. Their coach is blabbering a few tables away about how the FIVB Championship is only the start; Olympics are next and they will again be the victors. “Golden Age of Japanese Volleyball”, he drawls—Oikawa only half listens, distracted with the colourful lighting that paints Ushijima to different hues; his hair looks deep green, splashes of pink over his face and clothes, yet despite it all his eyes seem so very dark still and the gold medal hanging off his neck so very bright. Oikawa wants to kiss him.

 

Wants to trace the dancing edges of the reflected colours on Ushijima's skin, leave his thin lips swollen from bites, inhale the scent of the same shampoo that they both use—jasmine with a hint of green tea—and whisper again and again and again, “we did it.”

 

They did. Against the odds and all the shitty press that overlooked them, they did it.

 

Ushijima stirs in his seat, scans around the room, then turns back to Oikawa;

 

“Do you want to leave?”

 

He didn't plan to but nods after pointing to his drink—got to finish that first. They spend the next ten minutes or so just people watching and sometimes glancing at each other; somehow Oikawa can feel every time Ushijima peers at him, as though his gaze leaves a trace behind, as though it is tangible and tactile. Does Ushijima feel it so when Oikawa takes a quick peek? He hopes yes and no at once; he would want to affect Ushijima in return yet he also would not want his interest be so openly witnessed. Once he puts his empty glass on the table before him, Ushijima stands up automatically—Oikawa finds it amusing and follows his 'teammate' with lazy steps.

 

The air is cold outside and he shivers, complains of the cold until a couple blocks away from the bar and Ushijima slips his arm to Oikawa's, tugging him close.

 

Ushijima does not drink and does not like parties and does not like being the centre of attention by a hoard of drunk for too long, Oikawa knows, so he does not ask why they left even though they are the stars of the night. The wind howls and clears his ears, his mind, its chilly bite draining the effects of alcohol more and more by the minute. At each stride, the metal of his medal, now warm under layers of jersey and jacket, shifts and pushes to the thin fabric of his t-shirt, reminding its presence, blessing Oikawa with a breath of peace and a giddy sense of accomplishment. A year ago when he first joined and was only a pinch-server, nobody believed he could achieve more, nobody believed he could take command of the gameplay on court—nobody except Ushijima. It was infuriating though--it has always been; in fact if he was to describe Ushijima Wakatoshi in a single word, he thinks, that word would definitely be: 'infuriating'.

 

Two blocks before the main street, Oikawa catches the sight of a chocolaterie—he has never been to one outside Japan. It looks interesting but also very much packed, as expected; he still drags Ushijima towards there. “Let's get hot chocolate.”

 

“I don't—“

 

“Like hot chocolate. I know. But did you ever try dark chocolate ones? You do eat dark chocolate right? I think even you'd like it.”

 

“I didn't know they had dark chocolate ones.”

 

The store is warm and the smell of chocolate dizzying; couples sitting on every available space in the shop, a romantic upbeat song playing in the background and blurring the chatter of all the romance. Oikawa never understood the point of Valentine's or romantic love, but he loves chocolate and enjoys sex and appreciates good company in his own way. He untangles their arms but holds Ushijima's hand—calloused and firm and big, slightly bigger than even his own. Ushijima's fingers are thicker than his own too. He likes Ushijima's hands, both when it contacts the ball and spikes with the force of a god... and when it holds Oikawa, lightly or tightly, caring or desperate, so deeply in love. Oikawa never understood romantic love but receiving it, he can savour, as long as it is not smothering. So he holds Ushijima's hand and Ushijima lets him—they are many thousands of kilometres away from home and nobody knows them here and frankly, Oikawa is still tipsy and content enough not to care.

 

A quick look and he knows what he will order but he still waits a bit farther from the counter, lets Ushijima read through everything. Because Ushijima will read every single option written on the chalk board and check on his phone the meaning of every word he doesn't know. When did Oikawa become so patient and why does he enjoy watching Ushijima direct such precise attention to something as mundane as choosing a drink? He doesn't know. And he supposes, he doesn't have to know.

 

“The number 12,” Oikawa suggests since Ushijima seems conflicted even after scrutinising each entry twice, “the 70% dark chocolate with cinnamon and a hint of maple syrup.”

 

“Alright.”

 

Oikawa orders and then they wait and as they wait, Ushijima observes the other patrons, while Oikawa observes the man near him, man he is holding hands with, in a chocolaterie, on St. Valentine's Day, in a foreign country. If Iwaizumi told him this would be his future, back when they were still in high school, Oikawa would have cackled with offence and said something very sour and cruel back. Then Iwaizumi would punch his shoulder not-so-jokingly, probably, because Iwaizumi is the first person who will not take shit.

 

“I don't really understand it.”

 

“What do you not understand Ushiwaka-chan?”

 

“The Valentines. Isn't it made up just so people buy things? Knowing that, how could they view it as a sincere act of love?”

 

Oikawa giggles and takes their finally ready cups from the counter; there are small pink hearts all over the covers in the spirit of the special day. He takes a sip from each and passes Ushijima the a-lot-less-sweet one.

 

“I don't think that matters much for people.”

 

They exit hand in hand, Ushijima doesn't seem to care; but then Ushijima never seemed to care—what people may think of him, of them. Oikawa on the other hand cannot help worry about his image; sometimes it drives him mad, how apathetic Ushijima can be in comparison, and sometimes it soothes him, comforts him and he can worry less too.

 

Ushijima shrugs and takes a mouthful of his drink, savours it in his mouth; by now, Oikawa can read his face better and knows that he is trying to decipher the taste to the best of his abilities.

 

“This is nice...” He concludes—a whole seven seconds spent and that's the conclusion. Oikawa snorts, amused again.

 

This is nice, he thinks to himself too and squeezes Ushijima's hand once; this thing they have, whatever its name or namelessnes—this is nice.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr is @ninannarambling; I have a few ushioi ficlets there too, if any of you are interested :3 Or want to talk ushioi--because God knows I need more ushioi (and fellow fans) in my life.


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